


and such currents to drift one, are past all belief

by ClutchHedonist



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Flirting, M/M, Meteorology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25038661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClutchHedonist/pseuds/ClutchHedonist
Summary: Francis has been at Halley since before they discovered all that ozone depletion in ‘85, and never, not once, has anyone else on the station been as damned infuriating as James Fitzjames. Strutting the narrow halls as if he owns the place. Leaning an elbow on the water cooler tank for conspiratorial gossip. He’s a bloody meteorologist, for Christ’s sake
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 9
Kudos: 53
Collections: Fingerbang #2





	and such currents to drift one, are past all belief

**Author's Note:**

> With gratitude to magnificent tumblr artist @amatlapal for the 90s Antarctic AU setting and that inspiring/damnable sweater <3

Francis has been at Halley since before they discovered all that ozone depletion in ‘85, and never, not once, has anyone else on the station been as damned infuriating as James Fitzjames. Strutting the narrow halls as if he owns the place. Leaning an elbow on the water cooler tank for conspiratorial gossip. He’s a bloody meteorologist, for Christ’s sake. 

Francis scowls down into the sludge that they’ve been calling tea of late. The last supplies had come- god, with Fitzjames himself, hadn’t it? Two miserable years of mediocre company and caffeination both. Where does he get off, dressing like that? Tucking in his sweaters like some sort of-

And today, God help him, today there’s a hole. Smaller than the tip of his pinky, yes, but just at his collarbone, hidden along the loose neck seam. And fine, fine. The endless donning and doffing of layers with the coast’s icy whims does wear on gear. But it’s- it’s inexcusable, that’s what it is.

“What’s all that about?” Francis grunts nearly an hour later over the top of his clipboard. 

James looks up from his computer, “What’s what about?”

Francis makes a vague gesture towards his throat, “That.”

“I’ve still no idea what you mean.” James sniffs.

Wrinkling his nose, Francis lets the clipboard drop, then leans around their back-to-back stations to jab the tip of his index finger into the offense. James’s cheeks pinken, and Francis tries not to drown instantly in regret at the feel of a pinprick of warm skin against his own. He jerks back as if scalded.

“...I wasn’t aware that there was a dress code in the  _ Antarctic _ .” James manages haughtily after several seconds.

“S’Tawdry.” Francis grumbles, dropping his eyes back to his work. 

“Tawdry.” James repeats, brows canting.

“You heard me.”

“Do you have any idea how absurd you sound?” James huffs, rolling his chair back from his desk, “We’re two of the only sixteen people for miles. It’s pitch black a hundred and five days out of the year.  _ Tawdry. _ ” He scoffs.

“And you’re the only one of those sixteen people who-” Francis growls, manages to skid to a halt before he says too much.

“Who what, Francis?” James insists as he leans closer.

“It’s the bloody Antarctic, James, it’s not meant to be a magazine cover.” He grouses, more to his paperwork than the man opposite him. 

James’s eyes narrow, and for a blood-freezing moment, Francis fears that he’s been made. The silence between them draws tight. James purses his lips. Francis paws for words that won’t come, a dismissal, anything to make it seem like he hasn’t been  _ looking.  _

“Of course. I must have overlooked the sheer audacity of my possessing a hint of self-respect.” James finally puffs as he leans back into his chair, charitably releasing them both from the sudden claustrophobia of their mutual regard. 

“Vanity.” Francis mumbles, defeated. 

Behind his monitor, James smirks. Perhaps effective vanity after all. 


End file.
